Beneath a Midnight Moon

Sharilyn stared at her son in alarm. "You cannot love her, Hardane. It's impossible."

"I'm afraid it's very possible, mother mine."

"But the prophesy . . . it must be fulfilled. Only your sons can bring an end to the constant warring between Argone and Mouldour. Would you let hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others suffer simply to satisfy your lust?"

She held up her hand to silence the protest that sprang to his lips. "Yes, lust, that's all it is."

"No!"

"Hardane, you're a man, a warrior. Perhaps it was wrong of me to invoke your promise to remain celibate until you wed Carrick's daughter. But I wanted only the best for you, and for Selene. No matter what others say, a man who can control his appetites is a man to be reckoned with."

"Jared-"

"Jared is not the heir to the throne of Argone. It matters not if he spills his seed like water upon the ground."

"I hear you, mother mine," Hardane said, his voice heavy. "I hear you."

Rising, he began to pace the floor, his long strides carrying him effortlessly across the room as he sought to sort through his thoughts, looking for a way to make his mother understand what he felt. Always, they had shared a close bond. In days past, they had assumed the shape of the wolf, cavorting in the moonlight as they listened to the ancient songs that only they could hear.

He had to make her understand. He drew up before her and took one of her hands in his. "What if Kylene is the woman spoken of in the prophesy?"

"Where did you get such an idea?"

He shrugged. "I can't explain it, but deep inside, I know she was meant to be mine, that we're destined to be life-mated."

Sharilyn placed her hand over her son's. "I think you feel it because you want it so badly."

"Then why can I read her thoughts? Why can I walk in her dreams? When I send my shade to mingle with my betrothed, it's Kylene who receives me, no other."

"I can't explain it," Sharilyn replied. "I only know that you must wed Carrick's daughter on the seventh day of the seventh month, or all hope for a lasting peace will be forever lost."

Knowing there was no point in arguing further, Hardane left the room.

Somehow, he would prove Kylene was meant to be his.

Until then, if he could not possess her in the flesh, there were other ways.

He was walking in her dreams again.

She was sitting beside the waterfall, watching the torrent cascade over the mountainside, and suddenly he was there beside her. The sunlight glinted off his raven-black hair and kissed his skin like a lover who had long been denied his touch.

He stood before her, his deep gray eyes alight with a fierce glow, a hunger that filled her with fear, and excitement.

He held out his arms, a question lurking in the depths of his shadow gray eyes. "Lady?"

Without a second thought, she slid off the boulder and walked into his arms. "My lord?"

"Will you be mine?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

She hesitated a moment, only a moment, even though she knew it was wrong. But she wanted him, needed him, so desperately. "Aye, my lord," she murmured softly.

For these few moments, she would be a woman like any other, free to love a man, to hold him in her arms, to savor the sweetness of his kisses.

His hands moved lightly over her shoulders and down her arms. "I've never had a woman," he said, his gaze burning into hers.

The thought that he was as innocent as she filled her with exquisite pleasure. "I have never had a man."

"I know." The words were barely audible, made harsh by a sudden soul-wrenching uncertainty.

Her hand reached up to cup his cheek. "You will be my first," she said tremulously. "My last. My only."

"Kylene . . ." He whispered her name, and then his mouth slanted over hers and he kissed her, ever so gently at first, his lips as light as dandelion fluff.

But it was not enough. She leaned against him, her breasts pressing to his chest, her hips arching toward his. A low moan rose in her throat as his mouth crushed hers, the tip of his tongue sliding over her lower lip, until her mouth opened under the constant pressure.

Sparks. Lights. Comets. The tail of a hurricane. Her whole body throbbed with fire and silent thunder as he kissed her again and again. Carefully, he lowered her to the ground, his weight a welcome burden.

His hands were trembling as he caressed the clothing from her body. She should have been embarrassed, mortified. No one, man or woman, had seen her naked since she was old enough to dress herself. But she felt no shame as his gaze moved over her, his gray eyes alight with something akin to reverence.

His hand traced circles on her belly as she undressed him, and then he was pressing her close once more. She let her fingertips explore his hard-muscled body boldly, shamelessly, delighting in his solid strength, in the way he trembled at her touch, at the low moan of pleasure that rumbled deep in his throat.

And he was touching her, discovering the silken hills and soft valleys, learning what made her purr with pleasure, what made her shiver with delight.

And then, when he was shaking with need, when she was trembling with desire, he parted her thighs and found his way home.

Warmth engulfed him. Heat surrounded him. And he began to move inside her, reaching for the sun.

And she gave it to him. Bright, shattering light that exploded through him and spilled into her like a million shards of silken sunbeams.

He cried her name as tremors racked his body, his voice a low growl of pleasure as his arms crushed her close.

And she arched up to meet him, drawing him deeper, deeper, knowing that never again would she feel as loved, or be as complete, as she was at that moment.

And it was only a dream . . .

She couldn't face him in the morning. No dream, no reality, had ever been as soul-satisfying as the image that had made love to her in the night. She couldn't stay here any longer, couldn't see him every day, couldn't hear his voice, see his smile, and not throw herself into his arms. Not after what had passed in her dream the night before.

If she stayed, that dream was certain to become reality and, as tempting as the thought was, she couldn't let it happen. She could not break the vows she had made to the Sisterhood. To do so would leave her soul forever damned, doomed to wander in darkness throughout all eternity.

She woke early and went to Sharilyn's room, lightly knocking on the door.

"Who's there?" inquired a sleepy voice.

"Kylene, my lady."

"Kylene? Is something wrong?"

"I need to speak to you."

"Come in, child."

Hesitantly, Kylene opened the door and stepped into Sharilyn's bedchamber. It was a large room, filled with large dark furniture. Wine red draperies covered the windows; thick fur rugs covered the floor. She was relieved to find Hardane's mother alone in the room.

"What is it, child?" Sharilyn asked.

"I came to ask a favor."

Sharilyn sat up, her back propped against the high curved headboard. "Ask."

"Hadj mentioned that there's a sisterhouse not far from here. I wish to go there."

Sharilyn's brow furrowed at the girl's odd request. "Is something wrong?"

"No, my lady. It's just that I'm uncomfortable here, surrounded by servants and . . . and wealth. I've taken vows of poverty and chastity and . . ."

"I see," Sharilyn said. And, indeed, she did see. Hardane was not the only one smitten. "I think, perhaps, it would be best for everyone if you took refuge at the Bourne Sisterhouse."

Kylene nodded. Sisterhouse or Motherhouse, though called by different names, both were places of refuge and retreat, and she dearly needed a place to hide. "I should like to go as soon as possible."

"Within the hour, if you like."

"Thank you, my lady. And . . . I . . . that is . . ."

"I understand, my dear. Hardane needn't know where you've gone."

"Thank you, my lady."

"I shall miss you, Kylene," Sharilyn said sincerely. "I wish you every happiness in the life you've chosen."

Kylene nodded, unable to speak past the sudden lump that rose in her throat.

"Hadj will attend you," Sharilyn said kindly. "And Teliford will escort you to the abbey when you're ready."

Kylene nodded again and quickly left the room before Hardane's mother could see the tears brimming in her eyes.

"Gone!" Hardane exclaimed angrily. "Gone where?"

Sharilyn shook her head, unruffled by her son's outburst. "It was her wish to leave, a wish I respected. And you will, too."

"No!"

"If she had wanted you to know her destination, she would have told you."

Hardane swore under his breath as he began to pace the Hall's polished wooden floor. She had run away from him, run just as fast as she could. Why? Had his shadowed lovemaking been so repellent that she'd feared he might invade her dreams again?

He shook his head, knowing even as the thought crossed his mind that it wasn't true. She had returned his love, every touch, every thrust. He could not be mistaken about that.

Then why had she left the castle like a thief in the night?

He paused to stare out the window, and the answer came to him, quietly and without doubt. She had not run away from him at all, but from herself. She was an honorable woman and she had chosen to leave him rather than risk breaking her vow of chastity to the Sisterhood.

As if he would take her by force, he thought angrily.

And yet, wasn't that just what he'd done?

Selfishly, his need more urgent than his concern for her welfare, he had slipped into her mind and ravished her soul as surely as if he had raped her body.

But he couldn't forget how she had welcomed him, how she had unfolded to his touch, willingly, eagerly, drawing him to her without doubt, without hesitation . . .

A harsh cry erupted from his throat as he turned on his heel and left the Hall. Outside, he walked into the woods, seeking solace in the solitude of the forest.

Closing his eyes, he willed his body to take the shape of the wolf and then he began to run, loping with long-legged ease through the dappled shadows of the forest.

He loved being the wolf, loved the sense of freedom, the ability to run tirelessly. The wolf's nose picked up a myriad of scents: earth, trees, the smell of other animals, man . . .

And Kylene. He slowed as her scent was carried to him on the wind. She had passed this way not long ago.

At a trot now, he followed her trail, a low whine coming from his throat.

She had been here. He sniffed the ground and the air, howling with frustration. She had been here.

He followed her scent for miles, followed it to the edge of the woods. In the distance, set atop a shallow rise, he saw the stark outline of the Bourne Sisterhouse.

Sitting on his haunches, he stared at the high stone walls, a low howl rising from his throat as he heard the bells chime, calling the sisters to afternoon prayers.

Kylene's head jerked up as she heard the wolf's howl again.

It was him, she thought. Hardane. Somehow, he had followed her.

She shivered as another howl rent the stillness of the chapel. Never, never in all her life, had she heard a cry filled with such sadness, such anger, such despair.

She had arrived at the sisterhouse only a few hours ago, but it seemed as if she had been there forever. The ways of the Bourne Sisterhouse were different from the Motherhouse in Mouldour, and yet not different at all.

The same stillness permeated the rooms. The sisters wore the same look of serenity, their eyes filled with a deep inner peace. Their voices were soft, never raised in anger. They moved through the corridors on silent feet, accomplishing the tasks that needed to be done, feeding the hungry, the homeless, tending the sick, praying for those who were dying.

They had welcomed her with open arms, without question, apparently recognizing her immediately as one of their own.

The howl of the wolf came again, louder, closer. Kylene glanced around the candlelit chapel, but none of the other sisters seemed affected by the savage howling. Indeed, if they heard it at all, they paid it no mind, so caught up were they in their prayers, in their own private meditations.

Resolutely, Kylene clasped her hands and bowed her head in prayer, seeking the deep inner peace that had once been hers. But it remained out of reach, a shadow without substance, a chimera, like swamp gas on a cool summer night.

Desperate, her eyes damp with tears, she tried to find her own inner stillness, but it was gone, perhaps forever, shattered by the remembered touch of a man's hands on her too willing flesh, and the heartrending lament of the wolf.

That cry, that haunting, lonely cry, followed her the rest of the afternoon and into the quiet hours of the evening, penetrating every thought.

That night, when she crawled into bed, she was determined to stay awake, afraid he would steal into her dreams and take her unawares, afraid that, if he but spoke the word, she would turn her back on all she had promised to be, to do, simply because she wanted so badly to indulge her fantasies, to feel his hands in her hair, his lips caressing her flesh.

Wicked, she thought helplessly; such thoughts were so very, very wicked.

She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but her ears were filled with the anguished sound of the wolf's howl.

She remained awake as long as she could, but gradually her body's need for sleep overcame her and she tumbled over the brink into oblivion.

In her sleep, she wept, because he was not there.